Hunters and Farmers Share The Same Soul

 By Zeke B. Pipher

Our house is surrounded on all sides by cornfields. As I drove home from work this evening, chaff flew from a combine to the west of our acreage, creating a steal your breath sunset. As I write this article, it’s Oct. 31, and the corn is almost out. The red and yellow leaves that made our maple trees look like torches a few weeks ago are now scattered across our lawn. The whitetail deer along the Platte River are scraping and rubbing. All the signs are clear; fall is upon us, and winter is quickly approaching.


Harvested fields bring a dramatic change to our family’s acreage. For six months of the year, our house feels hemmed in and tucked away in the middle of thick, tall stalks of corn. The other six months of the year, our house feels exposed and open. Beginning about the middle of November, and lasting until early summer, we can see for several miles in every direction. And then the farmers hit the fields in April, and by June, we feel nestled in again. We love it all. Our family wouldn’t want to live anywhere but in the middle of farm country. I have a theory: I believe many deer hunters and farmers share the same passions. Farmers love being outside, alone with their thoughts. They rise to the challenge of overcoming weather, equipment and wildlife to find success in the field. And farmers carry a deep satisfaction in providing food for their families and others. Is this not the same soul that we have as whitetail hunters?

A while back, during a crisp, breezy November afternoon, I sat in a stand on the edge of a tree line. On the other side of the road, one of my neighbors — a hard-working farmer in his 60s — cut wide swaths through his cornfield as he brought in his harvest. His John Deere 9860 had pulled into the field about the time I arrived at my stand, so I had about three hours to watch him work. I wasn’t the only one who watched him work. Several does popped out of the timber at dusk, stood below my stand and joined me in admiring my neighbor for several moments before crossing the road and browsing his cut stalks. As I watched this farmer work, he seemed content, comfortable in his own skin and happy to be outdoors, alone, under the big Nebraska sky. Watching him reminded me of what Edward Abby wrote: “I find that in contemplating the natural world, my pleasure is greater if there are not too many others contemplating it with me, at the same time.”1 I felt solidarity with my neighbor that afternoon. In different ways, we had enjoyed the same things and in the same place.

As I pulled out of my hunting property, I greeted him by turning my headlights off and on. He did the same. So far in this article, I have romanticized farming when it’s actually one of the hardest professions a family can choose. Like I said, I live in a farming community. I’ve watched men with thick, chapped fingers take off their gloves in frigidly cold weather to switch out equipment or loosen a bolt. I’ve watched those farmers deal with drought, tornados, tractor fires, hail storms and overturned pivots. Every Sunday morning at church, I see the wrinkles and cracks on the faces of men who have worked outside in tough farm country for more than 50 years. I only know of the struggles of farming and ranching second-hand; but I know of them nonetheless. And I respect these farmers and ranchers for them. Theirs is a hard, uncertain life. But it is also a life rich with reflection. When I was young, I’d visit my grandfather Bernie in Tekamah, Nebraska. He felt pride in taking his grandson for coffee to meet his friends. He’d wake me up early and often say, with a wink and smile, “It’s time to go to the House of Wisdom.” I knew what he meant — it was his way of saying it was time to listen to the older men share their opinions. I remember sitting on a bar stool, sipping hot chocolate, staring at the older farmers’ and ranchers’ hands as they gripped the white porcelain coffee cups. Their hands were thick and rough, cracked like sun-scorched Midwestern soil in July. The men would talk together for about an hour, sharing their thoughts on everything. “Does everyone have as many opinions as these farmers and ranchers,” I wondered. At 45, I’ve concluded that the answer to that question is no. Farmers are one up on the rest of us. All those hours logged in the tractor, putting up fence or cutting cedar trees have provided these men with tremendous opportunities to put their thoughts in order. Those mornings at the coffee shop were the unpacking moments; the times when these minds, busting at the seams, unleashed themselves on one another.


And at 5 or 6, I was fascinated by what I heard those mornings. I respected these older men’s opinions. Most of them made sense to me. They had a sober, honest pragmatism to them; solid thinking by solid men. In college, I roomed with a friend who was raised on a farm. His family grew corn and beans and kept about 60 dairy cows. I spent several weekends and winter breaks helping his family. It’s the closest I’ve ever come to farming. In our down times, my roommate and I hunted pheasants and geese, flooded gopher holes with pig manure or shot at pigeons with pellet guns. It was during those weekends that I began to feel a bit of envy, perhaps even sadness. My parents had always told me I could do anything in life. Yet, as my admiration grew toward the farming/ranching life, I knew this dream would be almost impossible to actualize. Spending time with my friend’s family, and talking about the land, equipment and the capital needed to farm, I knew that too many variables had to line up perfectly for someone like me — who grew up in the city — to be able to farm as a vocation.


So, I took my love for the great outdoors, and I majored in biology and aquaculture, planning to work with a state wildlife management organization. That was in the 1990s. Today, I’m a pastor in a rural community in central Nebraska. But the part of me that loves the outdoors — the fresh air, the time alone, the challenges of weather and wildlife — never diminished. And I scratch that itch through deer hunting. I spend several hours in the fall sitting outside. Sometimes I take my children. Sometimes I go with a friend. Often, I’m alone with my thoughts. Every time, however, I feel indebted to the landowners, farmers and ranchers who let me hunt their property. Thanks to farmers and ranchers, those of us who have become teachers, accountants, mechanics, grocers or pastors, get to spend time outside with our thoughts, chasing adventure, and providing food for our families and others in need. We owe these families so much. We’re indebted to them not only for the food they produce, but also for being the backbone of our county. Perhaps Paul Harvey said it best in 1978, when he said, “God said, ‘I need somebody willing to get up before dawn, milk cows, work all day in the fields, milk cows again, eat supper and then go to town and stay past midnight at a meeting of the school board.’ So God made a farmer.”2 Our nation has been built largely on the tired, strong backs of the men and women who work the land and raise livestock. And it is largely because of their faithful management practices that we hunters have millions of acres of wildlife-fertile land to hunt today. So, let’s not take our farmers and ranchers for granted this year. Hop out of your truck, and shake your landowner’s hand this season. Perhaps give them a copy of this article as a way of letting them know your appreciation as a hunter. Or, better, visit your local House of Wisdom some morning this week. You’ll get a chance to thank several farmers at one time — and pick up a few opinions in the process.